


Names of Love

by Toruviel



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Incest, M/M, Other, POV Outsider, Slavery, Suitless Vader, Tatooine, Tatooine Slave Culture, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-29 06:04:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14466579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toruviel/pseuds/Toruviel
Summary: There are many kinds of love. Not all of them are wholesome, not all of them are simple. All of them have the potential to change the future of the galaxy.A collection of one-shots looking at Vader and Luke's relationship, some more AU than others.





	1. Eros

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to my beta, Princessleia9977. Thank you for your help and understanding.
> 
> Please, mind the warnings tags.

"You will desist this foolishness at once, son."

The boy merely whirled away, not once breaking his deadly dance, the red lightsaber easily destroying another duelling droid.

"Don’t use your elbow to power your blows if your wrist will suffice," Vader added, almost automatically.

"I know my form offends you, but calling it foolishness is a bit much, surely."

"Your _poor mockery_ of a proper form _is_ offensive, but not the topic of this conversation."

"I didn't realise we were in the habit of having _conversations_ , now," a smooth half-turn and another droid tumbled on the floor. "Usually you're quite content to simply issue orders."

"Orders which you have a deplorable habit of ignoring," he walked around the duelling chamber, observing his offspring's progress. "Mind your back, you _must_ shield after every jump."

"There's nothing behind me."

"You never know what is behind you."

"Of course I-"

"You don't. The Force is powerful, yes, the Dark Side even more so, but your own experience is limited. You've lived for such a brief time. You may not always get the proper read on your surroundings. That's why you _must_ always shield your back after every jump and a pirouette until it becomes a habit. All it takes is one instant of inattention."

"You would know."

He clenched his jaw at the mocking agreement, the heavy scar running the length of his face pulsing in remembered pain. His son knew how much he hated being reminded of his lost duel with Obi-Wan, though he doubted Luke understood the exact reason. He probably imagined it to be a wounded pride or injured vanity. The blow that had lost him the duel and almost killed him had left him with a deep scar running the length of his face, pulling his lip up in a permanent sneer. Disfiguring him.

He had no intention of ever telling his son that the scar was the last of his regrets about that day.

"Then you should listen when I tell you to shield."

"As my Lord Father commands."

The grinding sound of the last droid hitting the deck accompanied Luke's bow, a sardonic smile hiding his true feeling as surely as his impressive mental shields. Vader refrained from shaking some sense into him with a supreme effort.

"You will stop your illicit communication with the Rebel Princess, Luke. Or I will do so for you."

 _That_ wiped any emotions from that young face. Luke remained silent for a long moment and Vader wondered if he would outright deny or rather lie his way out of the accusation. How deeply had his Master's teachings tarnished his son?

But then, his son was in the habit of surprising him.

"The Emperor would not thank you for your intelligence, father. You know how he despises anyone knowing more than him."

True. And a testament to the sad state of their relationship, his own son believing he would denounce him to the Emperor. The Force was buzzing around them, reminding him he had only himself to blame.

"He despises disobedience even more. Especially coming from you," he meandered closer, his movement hiding his restlessness, the deep emotion only his son could awaken in him. "It is not my wish to see you punished, Luke. I am willing to keep your indiscretion to myself. As long as you desist at once."

"That's truly benevolent of you."

He didn't reply.

"It’s too bad that I have no intention of stopping," Luke continued, his head tilted like a curious dune-bird, almost masking the tension in his broad back, along his lightly bent legs. "I guess you'll just have to learn to live with it, father. Or tell the Emperor."

"Or I could instruct my agent to make the Princess aware just who had she been in communication with."

The boy took a step closer, his mechanical hand still clenched around his lightsaber. The Force spiked just once, cold and angry, before his son got himself under control.

"That would compromise your agent, with no guarantee that she would believe him. Hardly worth the risk," Luke smiled, a false, thin thing, a piece of their Master grafted on. Vader _despised_ it.

"I would risk much more in order to protect you."

" _Protect_ me-"

The boy cut himself off, his whole frame held forcefully rigid, the space between them vast and freezing. Vader took it as his due, as his just punishment, and still stepped closer to his son, into this bitter bleakness.

"Protect you, yes. From your foolish actions, my son, from your divided loyalty," he stated quietly, for to speak of it at all was a tremendous risk. "You know that the Emperor will not hesitate to destroy you, should you become a threat. Nor will the Rebels, if they are given even the smallest chance. Your position is too uncertain-"

"I'm in this position entirely thanks to you!" his son interrupted, voice too choked with anger to become a shout. " _You_ have hunted me down, _you_ have presented me to the Emperor like a pig for a slaughter! Where was your concern, your _protection,_ back then?"

"My concern was with returning you to your proper place, with your father," he ground out, face tense with anger, the bond between them strung and barbed, tight as ever. "Away from your traitorous friends and false mentors. By my side, to be kept and taught and made great. As is your birthright."

His son remained silent for a moment, his breath heaving out of him, his shoulders tense, the Force around them alive and chaotic. He kept his silence as well, waiting, hoping to _finally_ make his stubborn offspring listen.

"I do not belong to you, father," Luke settled on, his words quiet in the echoing chamber. "I'm more than just an extension of you."

"Yes," he agreed, stepping closer, lying his flesh hand on the boy's shoulder, noticing the faint quiver of the over-exercised muscles. "You are more than a tool to be used by the Jedi, more than a disciple for the Emperor to twist and subjugate. You _will_ become much more than your handlers could have ever dreamed. But at the heart of it all, you are still, first and foremost, my son. You belong with me."

There was a discord in the Force, a dissonant note as his son snarled and made to turn away, to walk away from him. Again.

No. His grip tightened, holding his son in place, his other hand gripping his chin to look into these angry, desert blue eyes, a mirror reflection of his own- His son glared up, his mouth opening to rebuff him, no doubt, to offer another argument, another _rejection_ \- Why couldn’t the boy see what was so blindingly obvious to Vader, so plain and true in the Force- His son twisted, trying to break away, the tide of the Dark Side rising-

He gripped tighter, pulled closer, twisted his mechanical hand just so-

He was kissing his son.

The boy froze under him, his body tense, the mouth under his wooden and unresponsive. It did not matter.

He moved back after mere seconds, his son's face still caught in his grip, the delicate skin a shocking contrast to his dark prosthetic. His other hand slid down the taut shoulder to rest on an arm, slimmer than his own, the material under his palm suddenly thin and inconsequential. He could feel the intense, almost shocking warmth, the snapping tension under his hands, could smell fresh sweat and exotic body wash. He leaned closer still, lured in by the sheer physicality of holding another body down, close to his own. Of holding his son close to him.

"You are my son. You belong with me," he repeated into the stunned silence, into the swirling vortex of the Force. Its tide was a mess of whirls and black holes, of new futures being born and paths tangled. He welcomed it, caught it and bore down with his will, forcing a future that would suit him best, that would lead them both to greatness, to _ascendancy._

The Force quivered and surged, cresting and setting in a new pattern. The boy in his hold echoed the tremor.

"Father- It's not, we can't-"

He shook his head, silent now, observing his son from the minimal distance. He took note of the furrow between light brows, the young face unmarred by time and scars, of the strong jaw and full lips. Of the compact body held in his arms, staining away but not restoring to violence to escape, caught and held in suspense. Of the well of the potential laying behind these wide eyes, just waiting to be awoken and directed.

All his.

"We are the future of the galaxy, my son," he said, his voice a low rumble, hand griping these sun-bleached strands more firmly. "We are its chosen rulers. We can do _anything_."

He drew his son closer and kissed him again.


	2. Philautia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a big thank you for my beta, Princessleia9977.

The swamp seemed even less hospitable than usual, darker and more treacherous than usual. Made emptier with Master Yoda's passing.

He leaned on his X-Wing, needing the support, if only for a moment.

"I cannot do this," he murmured more to himself than to R2. "I cannot go on alone."

It felt good, _liberating_ , to say it aloud.

The bog made no response. Nothing disrupted its habitual song of insects, bird cries and the occasional shriek of a dying prey. Perhaps that was all the answer he needed.

He slowly climbed back into his X-Wing, mentally debating his course. He knew what he was supposed to do and was equally sure he could _not_ do it. He couldn't kill his own father. No matter what his teachers had wanted him to do, no matter how much they had manipulated and lied to him, he _couldn't_ do it. He didn't even want to.

What did he want to do, then?

He sat back in the pilot set, stumped. What did it matter? He knew his duty, however grim, he had friends counting on him, he- But his friends were capable, their resources scattered but many, and he had to believe in them. They had proved themselves at Bespin, while he- He could not follow in their wake for the rest of his life.

He shouldn’t be thinking in these categories, he felt vaguely. Surely that was not how the Jedi Knight was supposed to think?

_… But you are not a Jedi yet._

These words, once hissed at him with spite, with _satisfaction_ , rang in his ears now as something else, something new. Something like a permission.

What did he want to do?

All his life, he had wanted to be free. To leave behind that desert hell of a planet and- He had thought that becoming a pilot would give him that sense of freedom, and it had, even if it had brought along its own dangers. What else had he wanted to do, when he had been a child, when he had watched the distant horizon?

He had wanted to know his father. To know his character, his looks, did he inherit either, how did his father get away from Tatooine? Would his father be proud of him, would he love him, was he alive?

His father…

Another dream, then, a less impossible one, and just as dear to his heart: the slaves. As a free-born son of a freed slave, from a long line of slaves, as a boy surrounded by other boys and girls who were not free, who could be hurt or sold or killed by their masters at any time, for any reason or no reason at all… He had wanted to free the slaves.

Why had he given up on that? When? How did the freedom of the galaxy become more important than the freedom of his home planet, of the well-known beings with bend backs and tired eyes?

Free the slaves. Yes. That's what he wanted to do.

That's what he was going to do.

He left the swamp of his apprenticeship and flew through the cold space towards the desert of his childhood, sure and with a purpose burning brightly in his mind, and ignored the spectre looming behind him. He was flying _towards,_ not running _away from_. He wasn't.

 

***

 

Many, many months later, tired and with the sand ground into his clothes and skin, with his face and hands burned dark brown, with new scars and stories he would never tell… Later, he recalled that moment. Standing on a crest of a cliff, looking down towards the newest refugee camp, alive with activity and cries and laughter, he remembered and smiled. What did it matter, what his reasons had been, what his methods had been, when the result was _this?_

It hadn’t been easy. And it wasn't perfect, stars no, but it was a start, a new beginning. That was _something_ he could proud of.

Behind him, a distant whining noise signalled a landing of a small craft nearby. He could feel who was on board. He didn't turn, made no move to run. He was done with running.

The Force tasted like burnt caramel, sweet and tantalizing, almost electrifying. The song of the wind intensified, colder than usual, heralding another dust storm. They would need to move the animals to the caves and post more guards. He crouched down, touched the sand, finer and a shade cooler than yesterday.

"There is a storm coming," a deep voice said from behind him. The hiss of a respirator was almost lost in the rush of wind.

"Soon," he agreed without turning. Now, in his home, this place of old legends and swift sands, he had no need for eyes.

"Coming here was unwise. Remaining would be even more so," his father warned, his deep voice the inverse of his blazing Force presence. "There are predators about."

"There always are," he nodded, making no move towards his lightsaber.

They were both silent for a moment, subtly probing, testing, tasting each other's presence. Remembering and moving past the memory.

"Why have you come back?"

"It's my home," he answered simply, truthfully. "I was lost, so I came back home. And I've always wanted to help free the slaves."

"Many did."

"And many helped," he smiled again, small and fond. "It feels good, to fulfil a childhood dream. Well, one of them, the more realistic one. And to help by creating something, instead of destroying it."

His father ignored the gentle dig.

"I despair of your life goals, if you call a planet-wide revolution and abolishment of the ancient slavery custom the more realistic one. What is the other, then?" he could imagine, could almost _see_ his father laying his hands on the black belt and shaking his head, so strong was his exasperation. "Races equality? Galaxy wide peace? Politicians serving the public and not themselves?"

"I wanted to get to know my father."

Silence. For a terrible, long moment, only silence.

"Perhaps it's as well that you chose to pursue _this_ dream, then," Vader finally said, very quietly. "You would have faced only disappointment, otherwise."

"Perhaps," he parroted, his heart beating double fast, eyes stuck stubbornly forward. He swallowed and forcibly calmed down. He was _done_ with running. "But it would still have been nice, to get the chance. To decide for myself."

Another long silence, nothing but the Force swirling between them, bright and biting. Utterly alive.

"There is a storm coming," his father repeated, taking the last step closer, standing abreast with Luke. "We should move the animals, the children and the elderly into the caves."

"Yes," he replied slowly, uncertain, almost not daring to believe…

"We should make haste. There is but little time before the danger comes."

Yes. He closed his eyes, relieved and not ashamed to show this, utterly transparent in the Force. Yes, oh stars, yes!

"We can deal with danger," he whispered through his wide, stupid smile. "We have a lot of practice. We can deal with anything, father."


	3. Philia

The landing platform was dark. So was the FBO, the surrounding forest, the whole kriffing moon. Dark and dank, a splendid end of a truly spectacular career in the Imperial Navy. If only Deerek could see him now, how he would laugh. He always had such a wonderful laugh, deep and honest, unafraid. He used to laugh a lot, they both had…

"Captain."

He saluted automatically, a pure muscle memory, the identity of his superior coming to him with a split-second delay. Once it did, he stiffened even more.

"My Lord."

"You may prepare your men for immediate take-off. We are to return to the battle station post-haste."

"Yes, my Lord," he saluted smartly, before risking a question. "Should I have the medic put the prisoner under for the duration?"

"That won't be necessary, Captain. He will not try to escape."

He saluted again and busied himself with fulfilling his orders, not allowing himself to think about their meaning until later. To be honest, he should not think about them, should not _question_ them, at all. It just wasn't healthy. Especially not in the presence of the Supreme Commander, who, everyone agreed, wielded some mysterious but dangerous power, and could, perhaps, read other's minds.

Then again, it was becoming blindingly obvious that his superior had no attention to spare for anyone but the prisoner.

Who could blame him, when the said prisoner was Luke Skywalker himself?

So he really did exist. He had had his doubts, after years of fruitless search and time, _lives,_ wasted. How could one man elude the combined might of the Imperial Navy and Intelligence, to evade the Supreme Commander's personal efforts? Some claimed he was a part ghost, other said he had never existed at all, had been but a scapegoat created as part of the cover-up… Deerek had never believed in the conspiracy theories, had argued that it would be too massive a waste of resources. But then again, Deerek had been such an optimist, never willing to believe the worst in people. That's what had killed him, in the end.

Although, had he been redeployed a mere standard week later, it would have been Luke Skywalker's shot that would kill him. Him and the rest of one million, five hundred and fifty-six thousand, two hundred and ninety-six crew.

When the hated and feared terrorist responsible for the destruction of the Death Star had been named, had been given a face and made flesh, many had been shocked, outraged. How could this be, that this young man, little more than a boy, whom no one had heard of before, this- this _nobody_ , had destroyed the biggest, most formidable battle station ever built? How could this young man with blue eyes and open face be a mass murderer?

And here he was, in the flesh.

Skywalker was shorter than he had imagined. Shorter and of slight build, dressed in black, he was almost dwarfed by the dark form of Lord Vader next to him. He looked a bit different than the face in the wanted posters and progress reports. He seemed older, more contained, just- different. As if years of insurrection and murder of Imperial citizens had somehow removed him, elevated him from the everyday worries. It was almost enough to mask the rot spreading inside.

"Have we ever met, Captain?"

It took him a long second to realise that it was Skywalker that had spoken. To _him_.

The regulations were clear about talking to the Rebel prisoners. Then again, there were just as clear about precautions necessary to contain them, yet here Skywalker was, restrained only by a pair of standard handcuffs. Perhaps the mere presence of the Supreme Commander next to him was enough of a guarantee.

"Captain?"

"No, we have not," he replied shortly, training his eyes away from the prisoner and his overbearing guardian. Hoping that would be the end of it.

No such luck.

From the corner of his vision, he could see Skywalker tilting his head, studying him just as intently as he had been studied. The Dark Lord next to him remained silent.

"And yet your hatred towards me feels personal," Skywalker responded, quiet and calm. Mild like milk.

He clenched his teeth, abruptly insulted by that calm, by that studied unconcern. No Rebel scum in the Imperial hands had any _right_ to appear that self-possessed. Did he not realise the just punishment that was waiting for him at the battle station?

"Your terrorist friends are hated and feared by many," said the Supreme Commander, his tone surprisingly calm.

Skywalker ignored the remark completely, those blue eyes trained on him.

"Have I hurt you in some way?" he asked, voice gentle and not confrontational in the slightest. "Or someone dear to you?"

Dear to him- To call Deerek- Oh…

He gripped his pants in his fists, forcibly keeping himself still. While the brass usually turned a blind eye to giving Rebels a well-deserved beating or two, this wasn't a usual situation. Nor a usual prisoner.

"That is none of your concerns," he ground out, eyes kept firmly straight ahead.

"The war has lasted for many years, and cost us innumerable lives," Lord Vader injected again. "There are many who had suffered. As you know, there is but one way to end this destructive conflict."

Even looking stubbornly forward, even angry beyond reason, he noticed the strange tone of that remark and the look that passed between the Imperial Supreme Commander and the rebel prisoner. Long and silent, unremarkable but for a subtle spasm that broke momentarily across Skywalker's face. There and gone in an instant.

The Rebel turned away first, face falling once again into that hateful, placid mask.

"I am sorry for your loss, Captain."

And he _sounded_ sorry, damn him to hell and back.

He made no reply. What could he have said? That he didn't accept, that a simple _sorry_ was not enough, could _never_ be enough, not for Deerek? Not for his honest laugh and his open heart and his awful singing voice, his amazing baarsh'cz dish and his lewd jokes. It did not matter that Skywalker was only marginally guilty of Deerek's discovery and execution, that it was just a bad luck that had him transferred to a new research group with a too observant colleague, the kriffing snitch, may he rot in hell. It did not matter. Not when he would never see Deerek again, could not even visit his grave. One had to distance themselves from sexual psychopaths, after all.

Pushed by a mad impulse, by a hidden death wish perhaps, he turned back towards Skywalker, ready to say, to _shout_ all that, even if that would be the last sound he would ever make-

Skywalker was no longer looking at him. His head was tilted up and to the right, lips pressed in a tight line, brow furrowed. His eyes were trained on the masked face of Lord Vader, who was looking right back. Both silent and still. Obvious to anything, any _one,_ else.

He turned away, something bitter growing in his chest, under his throat. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, counting silently, rebuilding his armour. When the shuttle docked a few minutes later, he was back in control. Able to take charge of his men, to see to his duties. All as usual.

Only the bitter taste in his mouth reminded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thank you to great my beta, Princessleia9977. And an even bigger one to every military person not fitting into the heteronormative mold. Thank you for your service.


End file.
